Blind Justice
by Faye-Morgan
Summary: The former assassin group Schwarz are accused of murder, with only Ran to defend them. Part Five, Schwarz go from one mess into another.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: This is a cross over/rewrite of Country of the Blind with Weiss Kreuz. Weiss Kreuz is not mine. Neither is the fantastic Country of the Blind – that belongs to Christopher Brookmyre, the only crime writer out there whose sense of humour is as unpleasant as mine. Naturally some plot details and characters have been changed to accommodate the boys … I had to get them to Scotland somehow as I can't be arsed to investigate the Japanese legal system when I already know the Scottish.  
  
Warnings: Bad language, lots of it and more than a smattering of violence. Blink and you'll miss it hints of shounen-ai that'll probably get more blatant as the plot progresses. I'll fill you in on the couplings when it gets relevant, but you might work it out for yourselves first.  
  
Blind Justice  
  
Part One: A Dark Day in Hell  
  
  
  
"Aya is dead."  
  
Manx had blinked at the sudden intrusion, but that was the only hint of her surprise as she looked up at the young man who stood stiffly in the room. "I'm sorry?"  
  
The young man took a deep breath and looked at the red-haired woman with a gaze of disconcerting intensity. "My sister died in her sleep yesterday. She never woke up. So now Aya is dead."  
  
Manx's features formed a sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry to hear that. I know how much she meant to you."  
  
It was hard to determine any form of emotion on the assassin's face, but Manx knew from experience that didn't mean he wasn't grieving badly. He shook his head. "No, you don't understand. Aya is dead. Both my sister and Aya the assassin. I'm giving her the name back, it shouldn't be tainted with any more blood."  
  
"That's fine, but if you want to revert to Ran surely it's your team-mates you should be informing." Manx paused and felt a frown cross her face. "Unless it's more than just the name of Aya that you're giving up." Ran nodded slightly and the woman sighed. "Crashers don't have any openings at the moment, but I'm sure there's something that doesn't involve assassination."  
  
"No," Ran said firmly, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. "I can't do any of this anymore. If you keep me in Kritiker I'm going to end up killing again and I don't want that. I want to leave, get out of Japan."  
  
Manx blinked in surprise. "Leave Japan? And go where, exactly?"  
  
"As far away as possible. Europe possibly, any further and I start to come home again." Ran raised his eyes for a moment. "Schwarz are gone, disbanded and wiped all records of them behind them. The others can cope without me. There's no reason for me to stay anymore."  
  
"It's a shame to lose you Ran, are you sure this is what you want?" Manx asked, sighing when the man nodded. "It'll take some time to organise, but as you said, without Schwarz Weiss can manage just as easily with three." She paused. "Is there any particular identity you'd like?"  
  
Ran considered this. "I'd like to keep my first name, I haven't been Ran in a long time. My surname has to change though. And I figured maybe I could study something like law."  
  
Manx's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Not economics or banking?"  
  
Ran shook his head. "No, Law is the only profession more cold blooded than assassination. At least this time I won't be the one committing the crimes."  
  
Manx watched him leave, then realised that Abyssinian had made a joke. A bleak, misanthropic joke, but what else from the taciturn leader of Weiss?  
  
  
  
It had been a bitch of a morning, one of the kind that made his fingers itch for a katana to dispatch his own instant form of justice to the whining, moaning idiots who stumbled into his office with their petty grumbles under the impression that their personal imagined slights were worthy not only of his time but also of not having to pay fees. He missed Persia and Manx at times like this, he'd always known they'd filtered all but the most needy cases from Weiss, but until now he'd never really appreciated just how much excess there was out there. So far this morning, he'd been verbally insulted by every single one of the potential clients he'd sent packing from his office and even had five threats of actual physical violence. It was shaping up to be a busy morning in Glasgow.  
  
Even now, seven years after leaving Japan, he wasn't sure why he ended up working for a law firm in Scotland, possibly because it was the last place he could imagine meeting anyone he knew. Or possibly because the constant rain and drizzle provided the perfect backdrop to brood against. Most likely it was simply because they also drove on the left and as he hadn't given up his love of fast cars, it made sense to stick to a country where his instinctual reactions behind the wheel wouldn't put him into oncoming traffic. Although on mornings like this that seemed like a tempting option.  
  
Ran groaned as he slumped his head on desk after shutting the door on the last grumbling time-waster and contemplated the joys the afternoon would bring. It wasn't supposed to have been like this, he thought. This was supposed to have been a meaningful alternative to killing and fighting for his life every night. Instead he was forced to listen of rants of injured pride and imagined slight that always turned to abuse when the unsmiling redhead curtly announced that particular case would not be making it inside a courtroom any time before hell froze over.  
  
He heard the door open as his next client entered, and then a muted, clinking, sound as a china mug was placed on the desk by his head. The display of thoughtfulness caused Ran to lift his head in surprise and then freeze in place as a very familiar voice spoke up. "I had a feeling you could really use of cup of tea right now. And if you knew what a bitch the afternoon was going to be, you'd be really grateful for that."  
  
Ran had turned to face the calm blue gaze of Brad Crawford, one of the last people he ever expected to find in a Glasgow law firm. The American looked thinner and slightly more drawn about the eyes, as he smiled slightly at Ran's look of shock. "Don't worry. You're not the only one who quit the assassin business, I'm not here to kill you."  
  
To cover his shock, Ran reached for his tea and took a tentative sip. It was remarkably good and he felt himself relax slightly. "If you're not here to kill me, then just why are you here?"  
  
The former Schwartz assassin leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "I need your help."  
  
Ran quirked an eyebrow and the American sighed again as he reached inside his jacket. "Look, I just need you to record that I gave you this envelope and keep it until I return on Monday to collect it. If I haven't appeared by then, you can open it and take whatever steps you deem necessary."  
  
Ran accepted the envelope with only the slightest outward sign of his reluctance. "What's in this exactly?"  
  
Brad Crawford smiled thinly. "If we're both lucky, you'll never find out."  
  
Ran glared at the dark haired man in front of him. "That might be more reassuring if one of us wasn't a pre-cog."  
  
Another enigmatic smile as the American got up to leave. "That is why I gave this to you instead of one of your colleagues. Hope to see you on Monday, Ran."  
  
He watched the man leave the room and then turned back to the envelope he now held in his hand. Damn he had a bad feeling about this.  
  
  
  
It began with a brief report tacked onto the end of the six o'clock news, it's seriousness reinforced by the note of panic in the BBC reporter's voice as he stated that sketchy reports were coming in of a number of bodies found in an Scottish country house and that, while still unconfirmed by police, the well known media mogul Johannes Fischer and his wife were suspected to have been staying there. By the start of Channel Four's seven o'clock news an undeniably smug-looking news anchor, clearly elated at getting one up on the BBC and their News24, announced that the bodies had indeed been confirmed as those of Fischer, his wife and two bodyguards and that these 'sickeningly brutal and sadistic killings' were being treated as a murder. In addition four men had been arrested leaving the scene, and were being held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. No real motive had been established, Ran had noted with an amazing degree of detachment considering the sinking sensation he was experiencing in the pit of his stomach, but seeing as one of the quartet was Irish and a Catholic to boot, the government probably felt its use of the act would pass unquestioned by the British public. And the fact that it allowed them to hold their suspects for six days without letting the accused talk to a lawyer was just an unexpected bonus. Or, Ran thought as he fixed the television with a glare of coldest violet, would have been if one of said suspects wasn't able to see the future and hadn't taken precautions against this very event. Precautions which seemed to involve the as yet unopened blank envelope lying on Ran's desk at work and in addition the ex-assassin himself no doubt.  
  
As the evening progressed, more of the cold facts of the case began to come to light and Ran began to find himself feeling more and more confused. While the two bodyguards had been shot in "a highly professional and economical fashion" once through the forehead each, both Fischer and his wife had been tied up and their throats cut. It had been fairly obvious that Fischer had been forced to watch his wife die, but unlike the blustering politicians and fellow media moguls who were baying for blood or at least a return of hanging, Ran found the method of killing strangely wrong. It seemed almost excessively savage for a team of professionally hired assassins. In addition, one Nagi Naoe had been soaked in Fischer's blood when he was caught trying to leave the grounds, which presented itself with problem number two. Since when did Schwartz allow themselves to get caught, let alone get their clothes dirty? It was also clear that the media had absolutely no idea that the group used to do kill people for a living, as the only crime they referred to was a conviction for robbery held by one Brad Crawford. At that point Ran had poured his now cold tea away and headed straight for the bottle of whiskey. Sure he'd guess they'd be out of practise after seven whole years out of the business, but to be caught running away? And why would their ringleader openly approach his old enemy for help? There had seemed to be only one solution involving a twenty minute drive to his office and one currently unopened envelope.  
  
The contents of the oh-so-mysterious envelope had managed to reassure Ran to a certain extent, but as he looked through what he'd found inside, he could hear the questions piling up around him. One thing was for sure, tomorrow morning he had a hell of a drive along the M8 to Edinburgh where Schwartz were being held and the police were not going to be grateful.  
  
It was ironic. No, Ran corrected himself, it was just the sort of sick joke he should expect from the former members of Schwarz. The assassin team had dissolved over seven years ago, but it seemed they hadn't lost their capacity to make his life a living hell. As he flicked over to the extended Newsnight and listened to the outraged cries of the politicians and fat- cats to bring these "vicious dogs to justice" and calls for "this unprecedented outrage to serve as a strong argument for reinstating the death penalty", Ran thought with bleak humour that the last thing any of these blustering suited gasbags expected was for someone to actually speak up for the four. It just sucked that he was one who had to do it. 


	2. Part Two

1 Standard disclaimers apply. I have not suddenly acquired Weiss since posting the first part of this. Chance would be a fine thing. Warnings for bad language and future violence, shounen ai yada yada yada.  
  
2  
  
3 Part Two: Enter the kittens  
  
"Fucking bastards! Those utter arseholes!" Despite the severity of his hangover, Yohji Kudou was still more than capable of being incandescent with rage as he howled at the walls of the living room. "How dare they just kill the man like that!"  
  
A half-asleep and equally hung over Omi made his way into the living room, rubbing at his head as he squinted at the fuming green-eyed blond. "Whose death are you so upset about?" The younger man enquired on his way to the kitchen.  
  
"Johannes Fischer," Yohji managed to get out in his fury.  
  
Omi's head appeared around the door, a vague frown in place. "Oh." Then the name sunk in and his flatmate's blue eyes widened in sympathy. "Oh. Yohji, I'm so sorry. It's such a shame."  
  
"An awful waste," Yohji agreed nodding in agreement. He accepted the cup of tea Omi pressed comfortingly into his hand and shook his head in frustration, honey coloured strands swinging across his face. "I mean there's so many people out there waiting to get back at that slimy little Scheißdreck and now those inconsiderate arseholes have ruined it for everybody."  
  
Omi considered this as he sipped his own mug of tea. "You shouldn't be so hard on them, maybe they didn't know who he was." The look on Yohji's face informed Omi this was the wrong thing to say.  
  
"That would make it even worse, for those bastards to murder the guy and not even realise who they had the pleasure of killing. In any case, if they'd actually known who it was they were topping, they would no doubt have decided death was too good for that low-life, scheming son of a bitch."  
  
"That's a relief to hear," Ken commented as the other occupant of the flat made his way into the living room. "For a moment it sounded like you wanted to come out retirement and kill the guy yourself."  
  
Yohji grinned with just a disturbing touch of malice that made both his flatmates roll their eyes. Ken shook his head and winced slightly as his own hangover reminded him why sudden movements were not a good idea. The brunette rubbed his head as he stumbled over to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards looking for aspirin. "So when did all this happen?" he called out.  
  
Yohji stretched and reached for the remote control. "Last night, apparently. It's amazing what you miss when you're drunk."  
  
Omi paused in his trek over to the shower. "Drunk is an understatement for you and Ken last night," he informed him. "Out of your skull, might be more accurate."  
  
"Hey, it's not every day one of my friends gets a coaching job for a national team!" Yohji called out after him. "You can't not celebrate things like that!"  
  
Ken collapsed on the sofa next to his blond flatmate. "Next time, it might be an idea to stop when the pubs close, instead of just continuing at home." He ran a hand over his eyes. "At this rate I won't even make it to the first training session before my liver quits on me."  
  
Yohji shrugged as he flipped through the morning news reports. "Fine, I'll just drink for both of us."  
  
"I feel I should remind you that I'm not the only one of us with a proper job these days, Mr Investigative Journalist."  
  
"That's not a proper job, it's my excuse of why I still break into buildings at my age," Yohji countered with the practised ease of someone who repeated this conversation every morning.  
  
Ken snorted. "I thought it was your excuse of why people still want to kill you."  
  
"That is caused by jealously of my stunning good looks and superior intelligence, not my profession," Yohji informed him with a toss of his hair.  
  
Omi re-emerged in the living room, pulling on his uniform and brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I'm going to have to head in to work now, they're probably going to be swamped if the suspects are being held there. Do you know anything about them yet?"  
  
Ken shook his head. "Just that there were four of them, one was Irish and they suspect terrorist links. If names were given, we missed them."  
  
Omi grabbed his coat off the hook by the door. "Okay, well I'll see you two later. Clean up the flat while I'm gone and Yohji, don't even think of calling me at work. I will not be giving you any information over the phone."  
  
"Damn," Yohji muttered with mock annoyance. "Seriously though, the only thing that bothers me is the inconsistency in the method of killings. It doesn't really fit with a terrorist act, why execute the guards when you're already planning on butchering Fischer and his wife?"  
  
"Great going Omi, you've set him off on another conspiracy theory," Ken muttered.  
  
Yohji grinned. "So I find that a bit weird, so what? Not everything has to have a sinister plot behind it; people do just get killed. It's just …"  
  
"What?" Omi asked.  
  
"I'd hate for whoever did kill Fischer not to know what a privilege it was."  
  
Ken groaned. "You are one sick bastard, Yohji." He stood and stretched. "I'm heading down to the pitch, try not to get too caught up in conspiracy theories while I'm gone, ok?"  
  
Yohji nodded and waved the brunette away as he turned his attention back to the television. He listened to a few soundbites from various ministers and rich arseholes before switching off the set and lying back on the sofa.  
  
  
  
It had all started that morning seven years ago when he'd sauntered into the kitchen to find an unusually silent Ken and Omi seated at the table. His cheerful banter had failed in getting anything more than a cursory response form the pair, but the reason behind it only became apparent when he casually asked where Aya was. That was when he had been presented with Aya's letter. 'Note' might have been a better way to describe the few curt- sounding sentences that stated in no uncertain terms that Aya had left Wei( and had no desire to speak to or see any of them in the future.  
  
That had hurt. Okay, so the guy was cold, hard-hearted bastard but Yohji had actually thought all those years working and living together might have caused them to be classed as friends. Surely saving each other's lives on a regular basis had formed some sort of bond between them? Ken and Omi weren't pleased with the note either, but their anger was nothing compared to Yohji's. According to Omi, he'd managed to swear without pause for fifteen whole minutes in at least seven languages before he'd calmed down. But he'd been entitled, damn it. He was supposed to be the irresponsible one, the guy who shared his bed with many and his heart with none. Then that red-headed, katana wielding ice-block came along and showed him with a single gesture of contempt that however much Yohji might like to pass himself off as the playboy, when it came to messing around with people, no one did it better than Aya Fujimiya.  
  
The others hadn't felt much like continuing with assassination, so it was mutually decided to call it a day. Ken wanted to try his luck playing football in Europe and Omi was determined to see the world a little before deciding on what he wanted. Yohji had found himself in Dortmund, accompanying Ken to matches, even though he refused to wear the strip – looked too much like a bumble bee. He'd also found himself picking up his old habits of digging for information and ended up working for a local paper as an occasional features writer. In fact, he only realised his obvious talent in the field when someone tried to have him killed. A hasty jump across the Channel and into the big bad world of Westminster reportage had followed, working for a major right wing paper owned by none other than Johannes Fischer. All had gone well until Yohji, with true journalistic instincts had uncovered a bribe scam involving major development contractors who were paying certain newspapers to run stories that would discredit protests to a new housing estate due to be built on a nature reserve. Yohji had been even less impressed to discover that one of said papers was none other than his very own and who had been the unsuspecting pawn? Yup, himself. But what really set his nose out of joint was Fischer's response to Yohji's discovery. Being sacked he could handle. Having his house broken into and over a grand's worth of cocaine hidden in his desk was taking things a little too far. It was purely his depraved past that had allowed him to find the drugs before the police and safely relocate the powder up his chimney. But the look on the cop's face as he headed directly to the now empty desk had been enough to persuade Kudou that now was a good time to take in the charms of America.  
  
Finally reunited with his two ex-team mates, in Edinburgh of all places, Yohji was still nurturing a couple of really good grudges. And if Fischer was now out of the picture, well he'd just have to focus all his bile onto the MIA Fujimiya.  
  
Yohji shifted and felt his hand drifting over to phone. A brief battle with his conscience ensued and he dialled the number for the police headquarters of Lothian and Borders, specifically the desk phone of one of their officers. The weary sounding voice that answered caused a nasty grin to work it's way across the playboy's face. "Hey Omi, guess who?"  
  
A groan answered him. "Look, I told you not to phone, didn't I? I'm in the middle of complete bedlam here and can't really talk right now. The guys in custody aren't talking, no one knows what's going on, or why and in addition the place has been invaded by suited jerks from London. The last thing I need is to be caught talking to a guy who's known for going up against Fischer in the past."  
  
The grin widened. "It's that bad down there?"  
  
"Fischer was a major meal ticket for the government and now he's gone we've got a lot of high ranking guys with no name badges wandering around, if you get the drift. I …"  
  
Yohji frowned and adjusted the receiver. "Omi? Hey chibi? What's up?"  
  
" … I don't believe this. It's Schwartz. The guys they've got."  
  
Yohji felt his stomach lurch. "No way, I thought they quit?"  
  
"Obviously they couldn't kick the habit. And that's not all. A lawyer's just shown up and is raising hell … I've got to go. Turn on your television. You have to see this to believe it."  
  
Yohji stared at the phone in his hand for a few moments before switching over to catch the lunchtime news on BBC1. The news reporter was discussing the suspects Brad Crawford, Schuldig, Jei Farfarello and Nagi Naoe and possible motives for the killings. "In addition to this already baffling case is the appearance of a lawyer from the Glasgow firm of Boyd and Mason claiming to represent one of the suspects, Mr Brad Crawford and apparently also suggesting that inside information played a major part in this crime."  
  
And there he was. Aya Fujimiya. Standing by Princes Street Gardens in order to get a nice shot of the castle in the background and glaring at the camera with a death stare that had lost none of its intensity.  
  
Yohji dropped the remote control in shock, causing it to bounce against the coffee table and switch the TV off. He swore and scrambled for it, hurriedly switching it back on only to find the picture had shifted to some high-ranking police officer. Yohji swore. Conspiracy glands, which until now had been fairly inactive sprang into full life. Something suspicious was going on, and he was going to find out what. 


	3. Part Three

1 Part Three: Swann's Song  
  
He caught the report being repeated on News24 and taped it for the hell of it. Now Yohji sat in complete and utter bafflement as he watched and rewatched the small news section.  
  
"This is a somewhat dramatic development in the case and we hand over to our Scottish correspondent for a full report." Cut to a shot of Aya, now going by the name of Ran Frederson, pushing his way past the crowd of waving microphones and cameras quickly followed by the shot of Aya alone by the castle that Yohji had seen earlier. Obviously meant to show just how goddamn important and special the Beeb were for getting the gorgeous redhead all to themselves.  
  
The slight breeze still managed to blow crimson strands erratically around his pale face as Aya fixed the camera with a glare. "My client left an envelope in my possession last week" his voice was still deep and husky as Yohji remembered it, even if he now spoke with a perfect RP accent, "and I was told he would return and collect it today. If not, I had instructions to open it. Inside wuh…" he cleared his throat and brushed some hair away from his eyes. "Excuse me. Inside was a letter from my client stating that he was in receipt of information, which he believed originated from a member of the security staff at the country mansion involved. Most importantly, my client stated clearly that this information would be used to stage a burglary as, and I quote 'someone very rich would be staying there on the weekend of the twenty-fifth'. I have brought this letter to the police's attention as it proves that my client's motive for breaking in was burglary and that neither he nor his accomplices knew the identity of this 'very rich' guest. Despite this, I am still being refused access to my client under the Prevention of Terrorism Act even though I feel this evidence sheds a great deal of doubt on this assassination plot."  
  
The reporter jumped in at this point, clearly not au fait with Aya's death glare. "So you're saying that Crawford and the others simply intended to murder and rob whoever was staying at the house?"  
  
The wattage of the Shi-ne stare of death was suddenly cranked up to complete the overall don't-be-so-fucking-stupid look that Aya was sporting. "No, I actually don't believe my client murdered anyone. At the moment all we've really seen is a lot of hysteria and hand-wringing and very little in the way of actual evidence. Until that changes I will persist in my beliefs."  
  
That caused Yohji to crack a smile. Aya had never been that talkative when he had the favoured option of simply hacking with his katana, but the man seemed to have been hiding the ability to cut dead an opponent with little more than a barbed comment. Being sadly offscreen, Yohji was unable to be treated to a view of the reporter's face as that tongue lashing sunk in, but he could imagine it.  
  
The shot cut again, to one of the Detective Superintendents who were leading the investigation who was speaking in a voice clearly fighting to remain calm when faced with the added frustration of a cold-blooded redhead who was insisting on rocking the boat. "While I understand the great excitement any apparent new development in this case may cause, given the shocking and distressing conditions that surround it, it is still vital we keep our feet on the ground. In the current sense of confusion, Mr Frederson's paragraphs may seem to be a dramatic revelation, but they in fact only confirm our own suspicions – that a security leak was involved in the tragic events of last night. However I find the idea that a few written words can disprove a terrorist motive disingenuous."  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"These sentences of Mr Frederson's do not actually prove that the accused were unaware of the identity of who was staying at the house. Indeed it could be seen as a deliberate attempt to cover up the fact that they were aware of Fischer's identity and you also have to ask yourself just why Mr Crawford would be so anxious to leave such a letter in the hands of lawyer prior to carrying out such a heinous act. It may simply be damage limitation, an attempt to conceal not only their true motives, but also the identity of whoever their contact at the country house was. Of course, this may be nothing more than a very bloody and ruthless attempted robbery, but we have no reason to rule out a terrorist motive at this point in time and because of that we cannot allow ourselves to relax our position at this point in time. At the very least, these men have managed to murder one of the most powerful businessmen in the world and if there is someone behind them, we need to hunt them down."  
  
Yohji watched the rest of the report conclude before hitting the pause button, a frown creasing his forehead. Something about the interview was bothering him, and he didn't think it was simply shock at finding his missing team-mate. He rewound the images until Aya's face reappeared and suddenly narrowed his eyes as he watched the man brush his hair back into place in a swift movement. There. He hit play and watched the action through again.  
  
"…not, I had instructions to open it. Inside wuh…"  
  
A sudden flicker of what could have been uncertainty in his unobscured eye as he glanced quickly away from the camera, breaking the glare and clearing his throat before sweeping the offending strands away. Strands of hair that hadn't been bothering him for the five or six seconds they had already been there.  
  
"Excuse me. Inside was a letter…"  
  
Aya had knocked off balance. Had slipped up somehow. Yohji rewound again.  
  
"…en it. Inside wuh … Excuse me. Inside was…"  
  
He'd given something away, or was afraid he had.  
  
"…uctions to open it. Inside wuh … Excuse me. Inside was…"  
  
Something in the accent, in the emphasis. Yohji listened closely.  
  
"…ide wuh … Excuse me. Inside was…"  
  
That was it. Aya had been about to say "inside were," not "inside is". He'd been talking about an envelope, not just the letter.  
  
Aya had something else. Crawford had given him something else. Yohji let the tape wind on as he mused just what else could have been in that envelope before he began to wonder just why no extracts from this mysterious letter were being read out or shown on the report. The only answer was that no copy had been given to the press and as he couldn't see the cops slapping an injunction on it only to blab on about it on camera the only logical conclusion was that it was Aya who had denied them.  
  
Why? The name of the game at this stage was publicity, especially with no evidence on the table. Why wasn't Aya anxious to get the letter into the public domain and give the media a copy? Unless there was something else he was holding back.  
  
"…a few written words can disprove a terrorist motive disingenuous." The Detective Superintendent said for the second time.  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"These sentences of Mr Fr…"  
  
Yohji hit the pause button again. A few written words, he thought. Mr Frederson's paragraphs. Never mind what else the bastard was holding back, he hadn't even let the cops see the entire bloody letter.  
  
  
  
Yohji tipped his glass back, knocking the dram of whiskey down his throat in one smooth shot that burned pleasantly on its way to join the others that had previously been consumed. He concentrated on the warmth in his throat and sighed. Just what he needed to get his mind off ice-cold redheads and ex-assassins who seemed to be heading back into old habits. He was letting his impulses overrule his professional judgement. His rivals stood accused of murdering one of two people who he really held a grudge against, the other one of which was currently defending them. Sure it hit at a personal level, but there wasn't really anything to justify running off to Glasgow and Aya – or Ran as he seemed to be calling himself these days. There was no evidence to support this one way or another and getting overenthusiastic would no doubt force him to leave the country. Again. And as America, Japan and pretty much the rest of Europe were off limits for similar reasons the only place left was Argentina, which he didn't really like the idea. Far too many Nazi war criminals, it would only lead to more trouble. No. He had to grow up sometime, learn a bit of restraint. Hell, Ken and Omi had no problems behaving like grown-ups, so why did he?  
  
Yohji briefly considered ordering another drink, but getting wasted seemed a pretty lousy way of starting to act his age and instead left the pub. He wandered down Rose Street thinking maybe a bit of sushi would cure this sudden bout of introspective homesickness. Yo! Sushi was gimmicky and expensive but it was also one of the few Japanese restaurants in the city and more importantly, they sold bento boxes for take-away. Aya had always been a big fan of sushi, he would eat it in a methodical, almost ritualistic fashion, placing the thin slice of ginger on top of the nigiri rolls with perfectly controlled chopsticks and followed by an eye-watering helping of wasabi before dipping the entire piece into the dish of soy sauce. It had been so elegant to watch, especially with Ken sitting next to redhead, scarfing away and causing rice to fly everywhere. Yohji shook his head and passed the restaurant, heading instead for George Street and his car. He wasn't really all that hungry anymore.  
  
Ken and Omi were in bed when Yohji let himself in, probably only to expected considering their current jobs. A post-it note was stuck on the fridge and another on the bowl of chilli that sat next to it. Both read the same:  
  
Yohji,  
  
Ken has practise tomorrow and I'm wiped so try and be quiet while you drink yourself into a stupor, ok?  
  
We left some chilli for you if you're hungry. Ken cooked it, but it's not bad.  
  
Omi  
  
Yohji grinned as he popped the chilli in the microwave and made his way into the lounge. A rental tape was lying on top of the video player, 'Fever Pitch', quite clearly it had been Ken's choice this time. Still the film hadn't been that bad last time he'd seen it, so Yohji picked up the cassette and slipped it into the video player. It wouldn't fit, his news tape had obviously been replaced when Ken and Omi finished the film. Yohji pressed eject and watched the television as it flicked into life again.  
  
"… has taken some kind of poison, believed to be cyanide, as he was only left alone for a few minutes. Police are trying to remain calm, but the possible ramifications of this suicide could be seen as very sinister, and even far-reaching as the Fischer murder case takes a further bizarre twist."  
  
A beeping sound from the kitchen, alerted Yohji to the fact that his chilli was ready. He wandered through and brought the dish back into the lounge with him, just as the screen flicked to the same pompous bastard that had had the misfortune of interviewing Aya earlier. Yohji grinned sadistically at his drawn expression, the redhead must have made an impression. He leaned forwards and snagged the news cassette from the video recorder, rummaging for its case while he grabbed a hold of the film again.  
  
"… while it does indeed go a long way towards solving the riddle of who may have been behind the security leaks, being as he was, head of co-ordinating security at the house in question, it also poses more disturbing questions given this latest macabre turn of events. Curiously enough, Mr Swann came forward voluntarily this afternoon having already been involved in the investigation at the Perthshire end, with the intention of helping the Edinburgh investigation into the possible security leak. Naturally there is speculation that he decided to take his life after discovering the police knew something he didn't, but its still too early to draw any firm conclusions. However I spoke with Donald Swann…"  
  
Yohji's fingers, which had been a fraction away from pushing the video in, froze.  
  
"…a few hours beforehand, just before he entered the station and he seemed very nervous and agitated. I believe we have those pictures now."  
  
And Yohji's heart stopped for the second time that day.  
  
Donald Swann stood in the early evening drizzle, a few hours earlier and a couple pf miles away from where Yohji now sat. He looked about fifteen years older than he ought to and was even paler than Aya, eyes never ceasing in their anxious darting.  
  
"Na-naturally very shocked at what has happened, and ah-am eager to co- operate in eh-any way. I am sh-shocked and dismayed that someone muh-may have been able to break our security and will stop at nuh-nothing to find out how this occurred."  
  
"Do you have any suspicions of the source of a possible leak?"  
  
"Obviously I cannot comment on that at pr-present, f-further than to say I have about as much idea as you at the m-moment. I haven't really had the time to c-catch up on events down here at…" Swann suddenly looked directly into the camera. "At this end of the arena."  
  
He cleared his throat.  
  
"It's not as if I've been sitting around and listening to my favourite music, although I think that perhaps more people should. Excuse me," he muttered as he moved off camera.  
  
"As you can see," the reporter stated once the clip ended. "He was obviously very concerned about something."  
  
"Yes, and his last remarks seemed very curious," the anchorman added.  
  
"Indeed. At the time they simply struck me as the words of a tired and distracted man, but in the wake of the tragic and bizarre events that followed, there had been much speculation as to whether it could have been some sort of coded message. But as to what it meant, you're guess is as good as mine."  
  
But Yohji, who knelt on the floor trembling as tears of rage and grief gathered in his eyes, knew exactly what they had meant.  
  
They meant black was white, something was very, very wrong and only he could prove it. 


	4. Part Four

1 Part Four: Unexpected Reunion  
  
The news of Swann's death did very little to improve Ran's mood. It hadn't been fabulous ever since the unexpected blast from the past, but recent events had proved that however bad you thought things were, they could always get worse. Open the mysterious envelope and claim your prize! Congratulations, you've won a sensational day-trip to Edinburgh where you will get to talk tough to some pompous policemen who will cease treating you like an eight year old child when you wave the magic piece of paper at them. You'll then be interviewed and taken very, very seriously by very, very serious men in suits and to round off your day will be interviewed for the BBC! You too can feel like a genuine legal hotshot!  
  
Then Ran had arrived home to watch the late night news and realise that he had sorely misjudged the nature of the case.  
  
As a lawyer, he wasn't supposed to have gotten involved until the action was over and everyone who was going to die had already done so. When all the pieces were on the board and the lawyers played the game out amongst themselves. Swann's death had effectively knocked over the figurines and revealed Ran to be amongst the corpses and Schwartz, part of the same story. He produced evidence to show that someone had given away information to Crawford that had been used to plan a robbery, not an execution. Big news, dramatic development.  
  
Swann comes down to assist in the investigation of the leak, not as the suspect source only to kill himself with a poison pill the moment he's left alone. Had the man hanged himself with his belt or flung himself off the roof, Ran and everyone else could have seen it as the last self- confessional act of a man consumed with guilt. But cyanide pills? Not exactly something you just happen to have on you, in the jacket-pocket: aspirin for those occasional headaches, antihistamine for those nasty bouts of hay fever and cyanide in case you feel the need to top yourself and just aren't going to get home for hours.  
  
All the confidence he'd felt at knowing there was someone behind Crawford had vanished as he was left to wonder frantically who was behind Swann. And just what kind of organisation he was dealing with when the operatives were prepared to take their own lives so easily and quickly. If Swann had been behind Crawford, and someone was behind Swann, just how deep did this thing go?  
  
He thought the action was over and the moves had been made, but it was slowly dawning on Ran that the game was still in progress and he wasn't one of the players, but just another piece on the board.  
  
It might have been his ever souring mood, combined with general crankiness that caused him to pay less attention than he usually would to the feeling that he was being watched. He pushed it to the back of his mind when he was greeted in the office with a round of applause and a sudden hand on his shoulder which belonged to one of the senior partners, Finlay Campbell. "Got a moment to see me in my office, Ran?"  
  
He nodded and followed the older man into the room. Campbell shut the door behind them and sighed. "Look, I've got to be in court in half an hour, so I'll make this brief. Crawford has a previous conviction for robbery and I was the one who defended him in court ten years ago. That's why he came here. Though when I say defended, represented might have been a better word. He pleaded guilty- not on my advice, but he seemed to have reached the conclusion that when the game was up, the game was up. My job was to present him as a remorseful man who posed no danger to society and whose crimes were committed under circumstances likely to be repeated."  
  
Campbell sighed slightly. "Of course, I could have stood up and said 'Your Honour, my client would like to state that you are a first rate arsehole and your wife shags donkeys' and it couldn't have gone worse. This guy had broken into several country mansions of extremely rich European businessmen and he was going to get it up the arse with a chainsaw regardless of any defence I put forward. You see, until then country mansions just didn't get robbed, and this little oik had led to a sharp increase in insurance prices in such places. Repercussions would hit the pockets of every member of the landed gentry in the UK, not least the judge, Lord McLean."  
  
Ran snorted. "And a harsh sentence would be seen as a deterrent and be smiled up by insurers?"  
  
"Bingo. He got seven years."  
  
"Jesus," Ran muttered.  
  
Campbell nodded. "Unprecedented and fucking unbelievable. Not only that but someone took major trouble to mess up his parole so the poor bastard served just about the entire time. So you can understand I took it as a measure of the man's character that he actually came back here for legal advice. Blamed no one but himself for what happened. A man of dignity and humility. They kept pulling him in for questioning and he even handled that stoically as part of the price he had to pay. I never got to represent the guy again, by the time he was released I'd moved onwards and upwards, but he always exchanged a few words.  
  
"Look, what I'm getting at is I believe the contents of that letter as much as I cannot believe he was a part of what happened at the weekend. It doesn't add up and what with last night's events … things are getting interesting."  
  
Ran smiled without humour. "Interesting as 'may you live in interesting times' interesting."  
  
"Exactly. Another day, another dead body. Question is, where does that leave you?"  
  
"I've been asking myself that all night."  
  
"Quite simply, it puts you right here, until Crawford is charged and you can speak with him. Any progress you made yesterday has basically been undone by Swann's DIY demise." Campbell picked up a pen from the mess on his desk and twirled it absently in his fingers. "The police were right when they said that letter had little value as evidence, but what it did do was provide a plausible scenario, especially with the lack of any other explanation. Robbery was a much more convincing motive than terrorism and public opinion would have been with us, even if public sympathy wasn't. Greed is something much easier to understand than intra-European, sub- factional splinter groups. And if Swann had done himself in with a method that was a little more conventional…"  
  
"Tell me about it," Ran commiserated. "But the post-mortem could show up something different. Sub-arachnoid haemorrhage …"  
  
Campbell frowned and shook his head. "I've got some police contacts. PM results aren't through yet, but they know he took a pill. The word is that the bloke who found Swann walked in and saw him pop something in his mouth and swallow it, upon which - get this – he says 'bye-bye' and sits down. The guy tried to get him to cough it up, but was fought off and a few minutes later, Swann's dead. And suddenly it's all cloak and dagger again while this terrorist crap comes smashing right back down on us."  
  
Ran broke the silence that followed. "But if Swann was working for someone, or being used by someone … what does that do to what Crawford gave us? Brad Crawford told us he was being coerced into carrying out a robbery, but could the letter simply have been part of the cover up deal? Why not just tell us he was being forced to commit a murder?"  
  
"Listen Ran," Campbell said quietly, trying to calm down the young man. "Don't let that distract you. You're forgetting who Crawford is, what he did." At the lack of response from the redhead, Campbell rolled his eyes. "Crawford hit maybe five places during a period of three months, mostly empty places, but if someone was there, the man was in and out before a soul knew about it. No knives, no guns. Now knowing this, it is plausible that someone might want to enlist his services to burgle a country mansion, especially if they had inside knowledge that someone as rich as Fischer was going to be staying there. That kind of coercion made sense as to the best of my knowledge Brad Crawford has not committed another robbery since then and was unlikely to be tempted. What doesn't make sense is murder. The fact is, you don't hire a joiner for a burst pipe.  
  
"Now this suicide might suggest there's someone behind all this, but it's irrelevant. No matter what went wrong, no matter what happened in that bedroom on Sunday night, Brad Crawford went in there to rob the place. Why there were four corpses behind him when he left is something we aren't going to find out until we get a chance to talk to him so until we do I suggest you occupy yourself with other matters."  
  
Ran raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"  
  
"The never-ending queue of time-wasters, who this morning include one of our regulars, a Mr McLeod. He can get quite excitable, but I think you'll find the experience a rewarding reminder of keeping your feet on the ground. Good luck."  
  
Ran sighed and turned to leave.  
  
"Oh and Ran? You don't happen to have The Envelope, do you?"  
  
"No. I don't think I've had it since before I left for Edinburgh."  
  
Campbell winced. "Damn. I was just asking on the off-chance it wasn't buried in here. I'll go ask Linda to find it for me, but first I've got a court appointment to get to."  
  
* * *  
  
He had driven around the block a few times, trying to find the car. He knew the make, colour and reg number, but with the central Glasgow one way systems and parking restrictions, it might not even be anywhere near the office. He had found a good spot to wait in that gave a clear view of the entrance and unless there was a back door he could just see Ran when he came out and follow him. He wouldn't intercept him then, but he'd find out where the car was and weigh up the options for later.  
  
He had the home address, courtesy of certain police contacts, but that was a last resort – you never knew who would be watching. Getting in might not too easy either. He could manage it, he was sure, but he had to get in without a trace. If Ran came in and spotted something wasn't right he could freak out or panic before he could get to him which would cause all sorts of inconveniences.  
  
There was a noise from across the road as one of the heavy iron frames was slowly swung open to let in some air. He looked up and felt a start of surprise when he saw the redhead standing by the window. He stood for a moment with one hand on the frame, letting the breeze ruffle those deep red strands before retreating inside. He had the strangest feeling of disbelief that the man could be so unaware that he was being watched. There was something frighteningly intimate about it, and yet the man by the window was completely ignorant of the whole thing.  
  
A man emerged from the entrance to Boyd and Mason, striding purposefully across the street as he vanished into a narrow road that crossed West Regent Street. He re-emerged a few moments later behind the wheel of a blue BMW and vanished into the stream of traffic.  
  
He got out of the car and made his way over to the gap the BMW driver had vanished into and found himself in an underground, permit-holders-only carpark. He entered quietly on the balls of his feet and peered cautiously at the four rows of cars, minus one space for a BMW. He spotted the car he was looking for, and was about to approach, when he saw something that him glad of his stealth.  
  
A pair of trainer clad feet were between the front wheels of the car in question, a red Vauxhall Vectra. There was a dull metallic sound as something weighty was placed on the concrete floor and a scraping sound as another solid steel implement was dragged along the ground before being picked up.  
  
He retreated from the subterranean chamber with additional caution and upon returning to his car looked around for a different vehicle. There it was, a white van hailing from a breakdown garage – the paintwork looking far better than the bodywork. He made a note of the address and phone number before flipping open his mobile phone.  
  
* * *  
  
Ran sat in the traffic jam and idly wondered just why he had never bothered to put the effort into finding an alternative route home from work. He switched on the car radio and abruptly winced as his ears were assaulted with the awful noise that passed as pop music in this country. He adjusted the dial until the talentless drone was replaced with the soothing Scottish accent a newsreader.  
  
"… would be fighting these latest proposals tooth and nail, stating it wasn't for Brussels to impose its own low standards on Great Britain. Detectives in Glasgow are appealing for more witnesses after a man, as yet unnamed until the family are informed, was found stabbed in Partick this afternoon. Witness say two youths were seen running from the scene…"  
  
With an irritable sigh, Ran grabbed a cassette from the overloaded glove compartment and slammed it into the radio. The last thing he wanted to hear was more depressing news. Hearing about violence and death in Glasgow was not helping, especially when he couldn't shake his sense of unease. He smiled as Gomez started to play and turned up the volume.  
  
As he reached the stretch of the Kingston Bridge that passed Scotland Street School, he was finally able to shift gears and put his foot down on the accelerator.  
  
And a couple of hundred yards behind his Vauxhall Vectra, another driver was rather surprised and more than a touch disappointed not to see Ran die in a horrific fireball as his car failed to go out of control and crash into the back of the slowing traffic ahead.  
  
There was a grinding sensation as he turned the key that made Ran suspicious that he might need to get the locks seen to, before it died on him completely and left him locked out. He would have seen about this straight away if it hadn't been for the piece of paper on the floor.  
  
It was several feet away from the door, much further than it could possibly have reached if pushed under the door or through the letterbox. What was more suspicious was that it had been placed exactly central in the corridor. The most telling sign of all this, however, were the words 'READ THIS NOW RAN' that someone had written across the top.  
  
He began reading as he picked it up, his other hand groping for the door, even though he was still undecided as to which side he should be standing on.  
  
'I have written this so as not to alarm you,' it began without any sense of irony, 'and that it won't come as a shock to discover there is an intruder in your flat. Please bear in mind that I mean you no harm and when you feel like venturing into the living room, I hope I will not be met with violence until you have at least heard what I have to say.'  
  
Ran felt his eyes narrow as he began to slowly walk towards the living room. On the way, he stopped to grab a large golf umbrella from the cupboard. It wasn't a katana, but it was better than nothing. He backed up against the wall opposite the open lounge door, so as to gain the maximum perspective afforded from this side of the door. Edging forwards he examined the interior as it slowly came into view. He saw the far end of the hateful fireplace before a hand came into view. Leaning forwards, and not moving any further, he stretched his head and shoulders as a black sleeve also became visible. It led to a shoulder and then to a rolled back balaclava that perched on a blonde head, at which point Ran leaned too far and fell over in a rare absence of grace, landing with a thump as the umbrella rolled away from him.  
  
He quickly rolled onto his bottom and scrambled back against the wall as his intruder loomed before him. Dressed completely in figure-hugging black and a posture that was uncomfortable, impatient and disturbingly familiar. Another step brought his face into the light and confirmed his suspicions.  
  
"Hello Aya," said Yohji Kudou in a voice that was far from amused. "I think we need to talk."  
  
Ran glared at the blonde from his position on the floor. "Well? Talk."  
  
"You wanna move nearer or something? You look like an idiot pressed up against the wall like that."  
  
"I'll move closer when I hear something that interests me," Ran growled.  
  
Yohji glared back through narrowed verdant eyes, then he shrugged. "Fine. Would you be interested to know that someone tried to kill you today?"  
  
Ran swallowed and then climbed to his feet. "That would interest me," he managed. "But just how would you know that?"  
  
"I'm the one that saved you. Feel free to thank me later."  
  
Ran clutched at his head as he felt a headache begin to start. "But how … when … just who is trying to kill me?"  
  
Yohji looked down at the floor. "Someone who's put an awful lot of time and effort into convincing the country that Schwartz killed Johannes Fischer and isn't very pleased about anyone suggesting the contrary."  
  
Ran's knees gave out again and he slid down the wall to the floor. Yohji started to move towards him, but Ran tried to fight him off, pushing and shouting. Yohji overpowered him and clamped a hand over his mouth, pining Ran's arm against the wall with his elbow. "Listen to me," Yohji breathed, his face only a fractions away from Ran's. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to trust me Aya. You know the drill. You run out into the street, they'll kill you. You phone the police, they'll kill you. You get into your car and leave town; they'll kill you. I'm all you've got right now." He removed his hand from Ran's mouth as the fight went out of the younger man.  
  
"Why are you here anyway?" Ran whispered.  
  
Yohji smiled. "I'm not here because I think Brad Crawford is innocent. I'm here because I know Crawford is innocent." 


	5. Part Five

Disclaimers: More violence, language and the first hints of one of my main pairings … you might spot some Crawford/Schuldig undertones. Some people are speaking in Scottish dialect; it's not my spelling. And yes, this is the first of the Schwarz centric chapters, which is why it took so long, you might have noticed, but I've been trying to get into their mindset lately – like things could get any worse for them. Mwah ha ha. Enjoy.  
  
  
  
Part Five: Out of the frying pan…  
  
"This is insane," Nagi muttered nervously, as he bit his nails. "This is fucking insane." This manoeuvre was complicated somewhat by the handcuffs and swaying motion of the bus, resulting in Nagi's fingers resembling handiwork Farfarello would be proud of. His eyes were blood-shot and dull from a combination of fatigue, fear and delayed shock and his throat was raw and swollen from the sustained effort of not crying.  
  
Crawford looked over at him from the seat opposite and wondered vaguely if there was anything he could say or do in his sudden reinstatement as the wise and knowing leader that could possibly make the young man feel any better. Probably not, and he wasn't getting any helpful flashes, but it wouldn't hurt to have a go. He shifted, preparing to move over and sit next to the youngest Schwarz, but a certain redhead got there first. Brad settled instead for the seat in front of the pair.  
  
"What's the matter Nagi-chan?" The German nudged the smaller man beside him with a slightly too bony elbow. "Is it the fact that we're going to rot away in some jail, or just that these seats are fucking murder on your arse?"  
  
Nagi gave a snort of laughter in spite of himself, the tension finding any release offered. "Nah," he managed with a nod towards the blacked out window. "It's the fucking view."  
  
Brad felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth and he glanced over at the boy, only to catch the bright verdant gaze of the telepath sitting next to him. What he saw there was probably the biggest source of relief he'd felt since passing the envelope over to Ran. Schuldig smiled at him slightly and there was no blame or accusation in his expression. It was the first time he'd dared to even look at the German since the whole mess started. He'd spent six years waiting, hoping, to see the man again and they got reunited only to drop into a mess like this.  
  
It had been Schuldig who'd been the force of sustaining energy in the run up to the mission, sweeping them all along in a wave a black nihilism that had suddenly possessed the redhead along with a twisted, black enthusiasm for the whole absurdity of -Schwarz- being caught in such a mess. When he hadn't been acting like he was on the ride of his life, he'd simply act as if it wasn't real, just another one of his well-loved mind games.  
  
Until he'd stood silent and pale behind Nagi, watching as the youth stared with incomprehension at the choking, gurgling man leaning back in his arms and bleeding to death all over him four feet away from his similarly slaughtered wife. At that point Brad had been certain, telepathy or not, that the German would spend the rest of his days cursing the American's name. Schuldig's expression flickered slightly as Brad continued to look at the man, and he opened his mouth, obviously about to say something.  
  
Until the shaking hulk in which they sat, suddenly stopped moving. Schuldig's mouth closed and he settled for a roll of the eyes. Brad followed suit. It seemed like the unseen forces at work were once again trying to decide where to put their four newest playthings.  
  
The door at the back opened to reveal a plain clothes man having a heated discussion with one of the policemen from the driver's cab, wearing the very British combination of a submachine gun and a clipboard. He seemed slightly annoyed.  
  
"…not the fuckin' corporation number nine bus. Do you realise who I've got in here?"  
  
"And do you realise who signed this?"  
  
Which apparently had been game, set and match to the plain clothes cop, who moved aside to let another cop complete with rifle and a copy of The Record clamber into the rear before the door was closed and locked from outside by PC Clipboard, who then climbed back into his previous seat in the cab up front beside the driver. The engine struggled back to life and Schuldig glanced over at the policeman. "Where are we going?"  
  
The cop, a rather greasy looking man in serious need of dental work glared at the redhead. 'It's a mystery tour," he sneered. "You'll know when we get there."  
  
/Unless you'd care to fill us in, Brad?/ The mental voice startled Crawford, he wasn't used to hearing the other man's thoughts inside his head these days. He managed an imperceptible shake of his head as he faced the front and heard Schu sigh and slid down in his seat.  
  
The last remaining member, and currently the only one sat on the other side of the bus bobbed his head to an imaginary soundtrack, as oblivious of their situation as it was possible to be while still breathing. Brad shook his head as he looked at him. In fact, Brad shook his head almost every time he looked at him. Schuldig had insisted on feeding the Irishman some drugs of an undisclosed nature before they were taken into custody and it appeared that the effects has still to wear off. "Look, we feed him this and he'll be mellow enough not to get us into any more trouble," Schuldig had argued. "Unless you really want him to go off on a 'hurt God' spiel during an interrogation, but I just don't really feel it'll help our case much."  
  
A sudden sharp turn to the left, followed by the unmistakable sensation of driving over speed bumps broke through the indefinite period of travel. The four members of Schwarz felt the bus stop and waited for the engine to cut out. Nagi groaned slightly, obviously not looking forward to the awaiting experience.  
  
The engine failed to silence. Instead PC Clipboard opened his door and hopped out of the van. The muffled sounds of more voices, posh accents and authoritative tones could be heard before the back door opened and a new prisoner climbed in, cuffed and smirking. Brad glanced at him briefly and instantly recognised him as what, in the local parlance, would be called a Wee Shite. Bruising for a fight and unconcerned with whom the partner may be. Personally, Brad half-hoped he would try something. Farfarello was sitting closest and therefore fastest when it came to reaction times. The guy would be less bother dead, anyway.  
  
"Woo," The Wee Shite announced as the door was shut behind him and he made himself comfortable on his seat. "I'm in presence of greatness here. Yous kill't that Dutch cunt, didn't yous."  
  
"Fuck off," Nagi snapped  
  
The Wee Shite raised his hands in a show of mock fear. "Awright. Nae bother. I'm no' messin' wi' yous cunts. Yous are fuckin' mental. Fuckin' hard bastarts, eh? Better watch my fuckin' mooth, eh?"  
  
"Just ignore him, Kind," Schuldig stated flatly to the youth beside him. A slight frown was playing across his forehead, and the German glanced back at the Wee Shite again.  
  
"Aye, that's right, ginger," the Wee Shite agreed. "Don't be consorting with the likes of that scruff," he added with theatrical articulacy in an obvious dig at Schuldig's accent. "You might end up in the jile." With this he cackled loudly for a while before leaning back again, content that he had claimed the honour of the world's wittiest man, and whistling Sex Pistols.  
  
PC Clipboard climbed back into the front of the van, missing the aforementioned item and looking decidedly unhappy about it. "Bloody circus," he grouched to the driver. "Waving orders from on high and expecting us to jump every time they clap their hands. As if it's no stupid enough comin' over here to pick that wee shite up, they've took my records off me. All this Top Secret, Need to Know crap."  
  
"So what happens to the order, the file?" The driver asked.  
  
"Fuck knows, mate. That cunt's away with it. I says I need a copy as well, but he gie'd me more shite about orders from above. I tell't him, I says if anythin' happens, I've no record of who's on this bus. Wanker just says 'Well you'd better not let anything happen then."  
  
"But he's got a record of it, hasn't he?"  
  
"Aye, but …"  
  
"Well it doesnae matter if you haven't."  
  
"Aye, but it's the principle."  
  
"Och, haud your wheest," the driver said with a small laugh, putting the bus into reverse and driving away.  
  
* * *  
  
Time seemed to dissolve after that. The jolts of junctions, the pull and drag of turns had ceased, suggesting a motorway. Brad squinted through the blacked out windows, but was only able to ascertain that the light was fading. The disorientation increased, with nothing to suggest changes in direction, speed or distance. For all he knew, they could be driving in fucking circles.  
  
"I'm bored," Farfarello suddenly announced, at least an hour after everyone else had come to that decision. "Anyone for I-Spy?"  
  
Brad felt the back of his neck tickle as Schuldig sighed heavily behind him.  
  
"Aye," shouted the Wee Shite, thereby proving himself to be the only one who didn't get the joke. "I spy with my little eye, somethin' beginnin' with … M.C."  
  
Schuldig sighed again, and let his head drop forward, where it fell against Brad's shoulder. Brad just shook his head.  
  
"A million green bottles, hangin' on the wall," sang Farfarello.  
  
Schuldig banged his head against Brad's shoulder again, this time slightly harder.  
  
"Do yous give in?" asked the Wee Shite, ignoring the fact that none had given any indication of taking part. "Awright, I'll tell yous," he announced triumphantly. "It's…"  
  
"Miserable cunts," said everyone else, including the guard, in monotonal unison. This had the effect of shutting the Wee Shite up, but also made it unclear whose go it was next, had anyone been inclined to continue.  
  
The driver and PC Clipboard, sitting in the cab at the front, were not included, but had they been, what they saw with their little eyes, for all of a quarter of a second before they hit it at sixty miles an hour – began with C.  
  
Brad had had a split second's worth of warning. A sudden vision of a tremendous jolt and had barely been able to brace himself, let alone alert the others, before they were flung to right. Schuldig's head left its earlier resting place on Brad's back as he crashed into Nagi. Farfarello collided with the seat opposite, rather than directly across the aisle, as the angle of swerve altered erratically.  
  
The guard was thrown like a stuffed toy from his rear facing seat, meeting the outside wall with a hard crack, but luckily below the glass. The Wee Shite, with both hands gripping the rail and his foot wedged hard against the seat in front was able to not leave his position. Then, as the driver began to turn against the swerve, everyone was flung towards the left, although with less force and suddenness. Everyone in the rear was able to grab onto something as the bus swung back against its previous momentum. However, this didn't prove quite so effective when the bus tipped on to its side.  
  
There was a screaming sound of metal as the bus skidded along the tarmac before coming to a halt. There was a brief moment of intense silence, as everyone anticipated further onslaught, which gave way to sighs of relief and moans of pain from the injured.  
  
They had all ended up corralled on the side of the bus, partitioned off from each other by the rows of seats. Facial cuts seemed to have come as standard. Nagi was clutching his upper arm, which was bloody and raw looking through a rip in the sweatshirt he'd been given by the police to replace his original blood-stained shirt. With the window shattered, his shoulder had been scraping along the hard road surface before he'd had the presence of mind to throw himself away from the gap.  
  
Brad himself had rattled his legs against something metal, probably a seat back went he'd been sent into the air with the tipping motion, but despite the dull pain which felt like the entire bus was resting on him, knew he'd be alright to walk after a few moments. He readied himself to stand, when a hand was placed directly in front of him in a silent offer to help him up. He looked up to see Schuldig grinning at him. Apart from a small cut on his right cheek, the German appeared totally unharmed.  
  
"See what not having a stick up the arse does for you Bradley?" He teased as he helped the American to his feet. "Suppleness decreases your chance of injury." A wink at the end of that statement earned him a suspicious frown from the older man.  
  
The Wee Shite was clutching his knee with his cuffed hands and swearing out of what seemed to be annoyance, rather than distress. He seemed furious that you couldn't get through a high-speed crash without hurting yourself. Brad watched him before an exclamation of frustration caused him to turn back to Schuldig.  
  
"For fuck's sake," The redhead muttered as he squatted beside Farfarello. The Irishman's foot was trapped amidst a tangle of bent metal, a long splinter of wood from the wrecked seatback jutting into his calf from which blood was steadily trickling. "Want to give us a hand here, Brad, Nagi?"  
  
The other two members of Schwarz made their way cautiously over to the rear, watching their footing amongst the mess of metal and glass that covered the bus.  
  
"Jesus," Nagi said, but he wasn't looking at Farfarello.  
  
Beyond the last double seat of the bus, lay the guard in a crumpled heap. His blank eyes stared forwards above a smashed and gushing nose, his neck snapped like an expired credit card by the strap on his gun, which had caught on a loose bolt as the bus had tipped to the side. Nagi crouched beside him, fingers going automatically to the man's wrist to feel for a pulse, despite the futility of the gesture. He dropped the limp arm and let his head fall on his hands, taking deep breaths and swallowing hard.  
  
From behind there was a groan of concentrated effort as Brad pulled at the crushed metal frame gripping Farfarello's foot, wrenching the splinter free. Schuldig held the Irishman from behind, gently helping him pull himself a yard back, clearing his feet from the mangled seat.  
  
Farfarello looked down at his leg, taking in the messy wound and also his twisted ankle that would probably swell to the size of a melon in a few moments. "Awwwww FUCK!" He lamented in pure annoyance.  
  
Brad remembered about the pair in the front cab and rapped on the tinted panel. "Hey, you alright in there?" There was no reply. He hammered harder. "Are you alright in there?"  
  
He heard a noise from above, and looked up to see a figure staring down at him from one of the smashed windows on what was now, technically, the ceiling. "You need to get us out of here," Brad yelled at him. "There's a man dead and another in bad shape."  
  
"The polisman's away with the keys," returned the driver. "You need to hang on."  
  
"Where the fuck is he away to with the keys?" Schuldig spluttered in exasperation as he made his way over to join Brad.  
  
"He cannae reach the lock with the bus on its side. He's lookin' for somethin' to stand on."  
  
"Jesus Christ," Schuldig spat, shaking his head. "So what happened?"  
  
"We hit a motor. Came oot o' nowhere. No lights or nothin'. Just appeared, headin' straight for us, then bang." The driver broke off as his face was suddenly bathed in bright light from outside and he shielded his eyes, looking away from the bus to the source. "Aw, thank fuck," he said before looking back into the wreckage below. "Another motor. And here's Alec back as well. We'll no be a minute."  
  
More silence followed. Brad glanced over at Schuldig, but the German seemed disinclined to conversation, his face set back in the slight frown of earlier. Brad heard muffled sounds from outside but the content could not be deciphered, only a final "NOW" as one voice got louder and more heated towards the end of the sentence. Then they could hear activity at the front of the bus, a metallic clinking and scraping, before further footsteps alongside the crippled bus.  
  
Only the Wee Shite seemed to remain unperturbed, and indeed was sniggering to himself as they looked amongst themselves in nervous confusion.  
  
"The hell's going on?" Nagi asked no one in particular as the door remained frustratingly closed and the anticipated contact from outside remained suspended. A laugh turned his attention back to the Wee Shite, who was leaning against what had been the floor with exaggerated nonchalance.  
  
"Wee surprise boys," he said nasally.  
  
With a rusty creak and a slam, the door was finally swung open and down in much the same manner as a gangplank on a ferry. The colourless face of PC Clipboard appeared in the gap, looking quickly around at the scene of devastation within, before focusing intently on the Wee Shite. The prisoner raised an eyebrow at him, and astonishingly, the policeman threw his ring of keys at him, whereupon he proceeded to unlock and remove his handcuffs. The Wee Shite then made his way down to the front of the bus and now that he wasn't obscuring the doorway, Brad could see the tall figure at PC Clipboard's side, pointing a pistol at his head. The policeman's semi automatic was slung around the man's neck, his sidearm tucked into the front of his belt. This was no accident. It was an ambush.  
  
The Wee Shite extricated the heavy weapon from the dead man's head and pulled it over his own, then knelt down and searched the body, producing a pistol from an under-arm holster. He got up and clambered back to the door, ignoring the other four frozen and gaping prisoners. The young officer outside offered a shaking hand as the Wee Shite climbed onto the makeshift gangplank. Before jumping down, he turned to face his erstwhile travelling companions. "Don't say I'm no good to you," he said, tossing the keys to Nagi, whose handcuffed swipe in the dim light failed to catch them. They clattered across the floor and out of sight.  
  
It took a few minutes to them, nestled between a particularly nasty looking, twisted pile of metal and yet more time to find the right key for each set of handcuffs. Brad climbed onto the gangplank first, noting with confusion that there was no one outside. No matter, he thought, one thing at a time. He crouched on one knee and took hold of Farfarello as he was passed up by Schuldig and Nagi, hauling him through the gap before descending to the road. Soon all four Schwarz were on the ground.  
  
"Where the hell is everybody?" Schuldig asked as he stood one the tarmac, one shoulder hooked under Farfarello's arm to support the Irishman.  
  
A sudden, shuddering BANG shattered the relative silence, causing the men to glance over at the bus to see if it had been hit again. Such thoughts were dispersed by another BANG, less than a second later. There was a sound of footsteps from behind, and Brad looked past the exposed underside of the bus to see the Wee Shite and the tall figure jog briskly to a car sitting across the road, it's headlights trained on the wreck. The Wee Shite hauled off his prison overalls and glanced towards his four co-passengers. "I'll treat it as gratitude if yous you're your fuckin' mouths shut," he shouted to them.HeHwevb The tall figure opened the boot of the car and they each threw in their semi automatics, then he produced some clothes and passed them to the Wee Shite. The prisoner quickly dressed in the top and trousers and climbed into the passenger seat as the car moved off, swinging around 180 degrees and passing the stunned gathering. The four watched in glazed incomprehension as the Wee Shite's hand waved - royalty style – from out the rolled-down window and the vehicle accelerated into the deepening twilight, unimpeded, unpersued.  
  
Nagi was the first to find his voice. "So … where's the policeman?"  
  
Brad looked at Nagi's worried and then over at the German, who slowly closed his green eyes. "Jesus," he heard himself saying, walking at increasing speed around the wreck. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus."  
  
He made it to where the driver's cab edged a surface of grass and gravel by the side of the hard tarmac, and saw what he saw. He turned to stop Nagi, who had been following him, but it was too late. The youth halted and recoiled like he had run into a glass wall. He shook his head minutely, then closed his eyes, clenched his fists and breathed out heavily, before being convulsed by body-shaking sobs.  
  
Brad wanted to lead the young man away from the sight, but he felt too exhausted, dazed and disgusted. He leaned back against the bus and looked to the darkening skies, then turned away from the corpses handcuffed to the radiator grill and punched the unyielding metal hard. "Fuck." 


End file.
